


School Games

by italktoomuch



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-29 01:07:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5110826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/italktoomuch/pseuds/italktoomuch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end of the war and the rebellion was supposed to be the end of The Games too, but after so many years and that time of the past becoming the subject of a school history lesson, things take an all too familiar turn back in time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	School Games

School Games…

It’s getting cooler. More and more leaves fill the forest floor, and once I’m finished hunting, I allow myself to step on them to hear the crisp crunch under my feet as I carry back my game to the line where there used to be a fence.

I wasn’t sure I’d start hunting again after The Games, or after the war. At first I was pretty sure nothing would start again. I didn’t think anything; the deep darkness of depression a heavy cloud over, surrounding, inside me, filling every part of my being and blocking out everything with even a glimmer of light, clinging to all of me. My own Dark Days; the darkest days.

But not now.

Peeta is the reason for that. He’ll say I give him too much credit; that it wasn’t just him, but it was. He came back, and he brought me with him. And made sure Prim didn’t leave forever too.

We still have our bad days, but we don’t expect not to. For the most part, we are happy. We are hopeful.

He built a new bakery, another fresh start but still bearing the memory, and the name, of his past – in fact, he will be finishing up there now.

I take a long breath, and look around me. It feels final, like a goodbye. And it isn’t, not exactly. I just won’t be hunting here, or be going as far out as I normally do for a while. And not because of the winter weather creeping in. For under the extra layer of fine knitted wool, under the slight bubble of skin at the lowest part of my abdomen, she is growing.

We don’t actually know she is a she, but I’ve stubbornly told Peeta she is. She’s not due until sometime in between the spring and the summer. And her stirring within me, the way she has nudged herself out from inside me to form the beginnings of a ballooning belly, terrify me.

But now that she is there, now that she is here, the thought of her ceasing to be terrifies me more.

So I decided today would be my last hunting trip.

I make my way back through town, passed the shops, including the bakery. I can’t see Peeta from outside, and I hope that he is home already. Instead, I make to the butcher’s to give them some extra to trade.

“Hi, Katniss!”

Dean smiles at me cheerily and I feel myself smile back, not nearly as bright or as easy as his, but then it never was easy to me, and butterflies drill nervously under my ribs.

As usual, I deny any trade or payment for the game, and he insists that he shouldn’t be taking it from me for nothing, that he will make it up to me somehow, some day. He won’t; Peeta and I have more than we ever need, but I understand where his promise comes from all too well.

Normally, this would be the end of our exchange, polite chatter, me refusing payment again and then heading off. Now, instead, I reach up and pull the end of my braid, twirling it around my fingers.

“That- that might be the last game I have for you… for a while. I’m going to help out in the bakery more, y’know with winter and all and it just gets so busy and….” I stumble through my lie, that isn’t entirely made up. It does get busier in the winter months in the bakery, and I am going to be helping out there.

“Of course, of course!”

I look up from my feet, and Dean smiles again, relief washing over me. I seem to have gotten away with the bakery being my excuse, and not the little, biological oven inside me.

Out of the woods, both literally and figuratively, I start to make my way home. I’m sure Peeta will be there by now; it’s after three, when he usually finishes with the schools, the children filling the streets. They laugh and chase and squeal with each other, so carefree and happy. Good, I think. They should be.

I reach our home, and push through the door quickly, a happy sigh on my lips.

“Peeta?”

I can hear voices, deep but low, quick, hushed tones. I frown, and shrug off my bag, kicking it against the wall gently.

“Peeta?” I call out again, more apprehensive and on edge than before, adrenaline starting to make its way through me. Breathe, I think, trying to calm my racing heart and anxious, awful imagination with the old technique from the doctor, who I longed ceased not accepting my need for.

My footsteps are silent on the floorboards and I continue further in. The voices stop and a chair pushes back. “In the kitchen!”

So he is home. I smile and release a long breath, thinking of how nice it will be to be wrapped in his arms. I’ve found myself becoming more and more needy these last few weeks, and once I stopped being so stubborn about it, I’ve ended up enjoying it.

He is standing beside the small wooden table we have there, a hand on the back of a chair. I smile, warming at the sight of him there. But his hair is mussed up, like he has been pulling his fingers through it, and his smile is grim rather than happy, and his eyes now search me, furrowing in confusion when he takes in my relaxed expression.

My smile falters, and my eyes dart to the table, searching for the other voice I had heard from the front door. Haymitch sits there, his lips pressed together. He looks away from me and I turn back to Peeta.

“What – what’s going on?”

Peeta looks down, away from me and over to our old mentor. “She doesn’t know,” I hear him mutter and Haymitch nods once in agreement.

“Peeta,” I start slowly. “You have to tell me what’s going on.”

My heart races close to exploding, and I make every effort to keep my breathing level. Peeta knows it is unfair to keep me in the dark, and that my mind will be conjuring up terrible, awful scenarios.

He clears his throat, and meets my eyes.

“The school wants to meet with us. All of us,” he gestures to Haymitch. “They want us to help with them teaching… they’re teaching the kids about the Games for their history lessons. They asked if we would come in for a lesson or two.”

I shake my head. “No.” And I won’t change my mind.

*

I pace back and forth in the small office, only managing two strides forward and back. Peeta sits, wringing his hands together, and Haymitch stares out the window.

“How long do you think she’ll b-“

We all whip our heads to the door as it clicks open, the Principle and Vice Principle, entering the room. I move towards Peeta, standing beside him and placing a hand on his shoulder. He covers it with his own for a moment, and flashes me a reassuring smile, dropping his hands into his lap, nervously gripping his own fingers tightly. I press mine harder into his shoulder.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, let me introduce myself: I’m Ms Johnson…” the Principle starts. I feel uneasy already. I said no, I said I wouldn’t, couldn’t, yet we’ve somehow all been coerced into this meeting. The other woman, smiles gently, her face much less harsh than the other, kind, and it does give me some reassurance. But I’m still completely against having anything to do with these lessons, Mockingjay or otherwise.

“I assume you have a general idea on what we would like from you, and we really do believe it would benefit the children’s learning for them to be able to talk with the three of you. You were of the utmost importance in the rebellion.

“Our subject plan would only really see you needed for a one off session towards the end of the project. The children will have done their reading, exercises and research to begin with, then would be your talks, and then we’ll end the whole block with a day-long Hunger Games tournament, to keep it entertaining and fun, with a bit of a competitive aspect for them. Now-“

“I’m sorry, what? Games?” The kind woman’s eyes look at me sadly with a sympathetic sigh and I know I haven’t misheard. Ms Johnson glares in her direction, before turning back to me, a polite but entirely fake smile on her face.

“Ah, yes. We are going to hold a game-like version of The Games for the children, like a sports day. Except, the children will have to “survive” the longest that day, like The Games. We’ll have some foam weapons and so on, to let them fully – “

I think I’m going to be sick.

The hand not gripping Peeta’s shoulder flutters next to me, but I stop myself before it reaches my barely, but perfectly rounded stomach, to try and stop her from ever having to come into a world I stupidly thought could be fair, or less cruel. Instead it clamps over my mouth. I watch Peeta’s knuckles turn white, his jaw tightening so much I can feel the tension under my hand, all the way at his shoulder. Children, re-enacting The Games. It’s horrendous, it’s awful, it’s disgusting.

It’s so Capitolistic.

Bile rises in my throat, and I know I am going to throw up even though I long since stopped having morning (noon and night) sickness. My cheeks feel pale, and I shake my head. I can’t look at anyone, I focus on the door and keep walking, ignoring the calls of my name. Once I throw it open, and I am free into the empty hallway, I run to the nearest bathroom and shut myself into the first cubicle, emptying my stomach of my breakfast.

I hear the footsteps after me just as I am wiping my mouth clean.

“K-Katniss?”

Peeta. I can’t move, can’t even breathe. A bubble of sorrow, overwhelming fear and dread, and something like longing clogs under my sternum, not high enough to choke me, but pressing directly over my heart and trapping my voice nonetheless. How could they let this happen? How could – how could anyone – think this okay? A strangled, raspy sound escapes my lips, choking as it claws its way out of me.

I hear his uneven footsteps stop just outside my door and let out a long shaking breath.

I didn’t think people could still be so cruel.

If not to the children for failing them and teaching them no different, then to us. To everyone who is still here after it all – how could this possibly seem like a good idea?

My thoughts echo around my head and the tiny space enclosed around me; how, how, how?

It’s so quiet, but know I am not alone. My hand smooths down my shirt, rubbing a half circle over my growing belly. Tears prickle my eyes, my heart clenching tightly and the temperature of my very core momentarily turning to ice at the mere thought of her playing at “The Games”, foam bow and arrow and all. My fingers slip under my shirt and press against my skin, promising her and myself and Peeta, that I won’t allow it to happen.

“Katniss, please open the door. It’s only me, just us.”

I look up to my side of the locked door, pulling my knees as close to my chest as I can and stretching up until I can swipe the lock open.

My lip quivers. Peeta is kneeling down, a hand reaching around my shoulders and cradling my head, my name on his lips before they meet my hair. An even stream of tears spill from my eyes, flowing down my cheeks and I don’t try to stop them, my hands clawing into the shoulders of his shirt.

“They can’t make children, children, do that Peeta. I can’t let her be a part of it… Not our… I won’t…”

He grips me tighter, and I hear him shush me. He’s going to make a wonderful father, I suddenly think, and feel a twinge of guilt that it took me this long to want it too. He feels so safe, so warm and gentle but big and strong. It makes more tears fill my eyes. “You’re going to be an incredible father,” I whisper to him, the words slipping out easily.

He brushes his lips against the side of my head, and I can feel him smiling softly into my hair.

We pull back, and Peeta slides down to sit beside me, my head falling against his shoulder.

“How do we stop it?”

He lets a small puff of a laugh out of his nose. “I think Haymitch is sorting it in there. That old man can still shout. If the principle hasn’t resigned by the end of the day, I’ll… I’ll do something ridiculous.”

He grins crookedly, but I can see the strain in his face as he tries to make a potentially dark, awful situation at least a little lighter. I smile softly too though I know it doesn’t reach my eyes either, my fingers still tracing absently under my shirt. “We can’t let them think the Games were just that; a game. They have to understand, all of the children do, but especially ours.”

He nods, and looks down at my stomach. “You’re already an incredible mother, y’know.”

I feel my cheeks flame slightly at his flattery and look down, but I smile wider too, glad and proud that he, especially he, thinks so.

“Come on,” Peeta stands, reaching out a hand for me. “Better go and help Haymitch, and make sure he’s not wrecking the place.”

Accepting his hand, I rise too, our arms slipping around each other as we make our way back together.

“Soooo,” he grins, nudging his hip into mine. “We’re having “children”?”

I groan, and elbow him back, even though I smile. “I knew you would’ve noticed that.”

“Well?” He keeps grinning.

“We’ll see,” I reply tightly, and he squeezes my shoulders again.

The closer we get to the office, the louder Haymitch sounds. He’s definitely winning that’s for sure.

“What are you willing to bet that Haymitch has himself hired as Principle instead of her?” Peeta smiles, but he reaches for my hand at the same time, still fully aware of our shared concerns and seriousness of the prospect of recreating The Games for children, especially ours.

“You really think he’ll convince them to change it? That we’ll convince them?” I feel my teeth sink into my bottom lip and see Peeta give an awkward shrug, one hand reaching for the door.

“Well, you did lead a rebellion once, this is just a school. I’d say the odds are more in our favour today.”


End file.
